Hearth
by Nerumi H
Summary: Elsa has left more than a storm behind to curse them; she has given him a responsibility he's scared to shatter, and her a burden that freezes her to death. /for the prompt "cuddling during a snowstorm."


**.title.: **hearth

**.summary.: **Elsa has left more than a storm behind to curse them; she has given him a responsibility he's scared to shatter, and her a burden that freezes her to death.

**.characters.: **Hans/Anna (of questionable romance)

**.a/n.: **Written for the prompt "cuddling during a snowstorm" on my tumblr: bjorgmans! Sent in by my dear Steph. This was really fun to write, too, I really miss Hanna. Enjoy!

**X**

Anna stumbles in the doorway, flanked by worrying aids and her careless, dismissing grin, catching him by surprise as he hovers near the fire. He knows immediately: she's been outside again – she's not permitted, a watery, concerned rule tossed up and down the halls by staff going blue in the fingers because of the cold, and by _him_ – her hair is tossed, coats disarray and soaked in ice, the fur frosted in rusted shine.

Hans hurries to her, grabbing a wolf-fur blanket off the sofa. "Anna," he breathes, and locks his teeth against the accusation battering to be snarled: _what were you doing out there **again**._

She grins stiffly, her lips in pale tint. Her eyelashes are frosted, and the snowflakes on her cheeks and hairline not yet beginning to melt. "Hey, there. Cold, huh?"

"You'll freeze to death _in here_," with a look over her garb, he calmly chastises; she lets him unbutton her frozen ankle-length coats and shed them to the floor, where a chain of servants sweep them up, while she tries to hold her stiffly shaking arms out in mockery of being fitted to a dress. Over Anna's head, he shoots the staff glares – _they're_ in charge of the doors.

She greets him again, hunching her shoulders, while he exercises worry in draping the blanket tight around her shivering shoulders, and sweeping her gingery waves out from the collar that she's swiftly snuggling into. Anna casts him a glimpse of a grateful smile, her cheeks permanently tinged with a blotchy pink.

He hesitates for a second, then kisses her temple, where he can feel her jaw click shut tight.

Hans murmurs, "Come here, warm up, thank god you're back, Anna," corralling her into his arms and leading them both closer to the fire. She leans into him, her slight form vanished under the blankets, and (guilty) giggles permeate her shivering. Christ – he's cold too, they're all cold, the whole castle is _crystallizing_, and yet she goes out into the storm like it _means_ something, when it's been weeks and nothing, _nothing_ has risen its head from the burned, dead earth.

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid – _

They drift together in a familiar position, coiled near the fire on the floor against the furniture, close enough to feel popping embers nick their cheeks. The sofa has been pushed up to it permanently, but he tries to keep it clean of wood shavings and burns by advising the staff, though they've become lenient, as work with cold hands has proven difficult.

Elsa has a store of gloves that are useful for something, at least.

Anna sighs into his ear as she slides down his chest, lower back curving into his thigh, the crisply cold waves of her hair brushing into his neck. She radiates chill into him, so he reaches back for another blanket to shadow them, heavy, smelling of dust – they'd all been gathered in a rush, and he's aware, some of the new fur still clots with old blood.

"What've you been doing?" Anna asks conversationally, as if her teeth aren't chattering.

"Worrying about you," he answers.

She snorts softly. "Okay, yeah. How long did that last?"

The cold makes everyone bitter. It likely means little – she's frustrated, of course, they all are, but he now feels too often that he is slipping. He slides a hand across her wrist, under the blankets, gliding palm-to-palm. Her fingers curl in, brush. She's accused him of not coming with her out there before, for her idiotic mission.

"It still hasn't faded," he says, nuzzling the top of her frigid ear. "Not just because your skin is ice, either."

She sighs, a little too heavy, but brings his warm hand across her heart. "Don't worry too much about me, then. I don't want my husband going prematurely grey."

The term soothes him – just a little, just a scrape against the stubborn, angry doubt frosting him over. "Anna… This storm, it's destroying everything."

She stares into the fire. "I know that."

"You're stronger than most I know, but not this. I can't risk you getting hurt." He carefully twists her; she manages the rest of the turn by herself, gazing up at him; the snowflakes have melted into tiny, dewdrop tears. "I can't lose you."

"I can't lose you either," Anna says. Firm, so sure of herself, like always, lion-hearted, and believing, and stupid. "But you can't pretend like you don't know why I go out there. Or that you can stop me."

No, he cannot. They gaze at each other for a while, dewdrops gleaming and breaking lose, her lips filling with tepid colour once again, and how her eyes bore past his concern, against the shattering plates of bone and knowing and a plan he cannot regain, one _she isn't letting him regain,_ and to break her stare he kisses her.

A tiny sigh bridges their lips, and she parts, to stare right back at the fire, little melting Anna.

She breathes, finally, "She wouldn't be dead yet, right?"

He blinks. "…Pardon?"

Her hand loosens beneath his, and drifts, down across her shoulder, until the tips of their fingers interlock weakly and that is all. All he can feel is her chill and the hastily shorn flesh of dead wolves.

Anna whispers, "If there's still a storm…she can't be dead."

He wants to say yes – he _needs_ to say yes, she's dead, your sister is dead, and gone, and has cursed us, us, _our_ kingdom.

He sneers while she cannot see. "The storm does give me hope, yes."

She snuggles further into his arms, but doesn't reply.


End file.
